


This is Going to Kill Me, Isn't it?

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bonding, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Communication, Enthusiastic Consent, Hard To Believe I Know, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Light Dom/sub, M/M, OSHA violation, Pack Bonding, Smut and Fluff, Soulmarks, Top Eskel (The Witcher), hurt!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: Both Witchers are silent as they stare at the brand that Jaskier can still feel pulsing gently in tune with his heart.“Well fuck,” Lambert says quietly. “That… that’s it then.”“No it’s fucking not.” Eskel snarls and Jaskier turns back to look at him, eyes wide.“Ya it fucking is,” Lambert snaps back.“Just because some hapless kid is stuck with that mark doesn’t mean we get to claim him and drag him along with us.”“Pretty sure we’re not the ones making that decision.”“Pretty sure neither are you.”“What is happening right now?” Jaskier asks, suddenly bewildered.------------Or, Jaskier's had a soulmark since he's been born, but his mother has told him they're just the stuff of fairy tales. Honestly, he thought the same until he meets a Witcher that makes it burn in time to the beating of his heart.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 352





	This is Going to Kill Me, Isn't it?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaimistoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimistoryteller/gifts).



> Hello! This is my Secret Santa gift for [@jaimistoryteller](https://jaimistoryteller.tumblr.com/) on the BLKM discord server. They asked for soulmates and found family and gentle dom and I just kept writing until I managed to incorporate all three. Somehow. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it!

Jaskier can hear the echo of his mother’s words as he lays bleeding in the meadow. 

_You’re never going to find your soulmate, Julian. They’re a fairy tale._

His breath is rattling in his lungs, pain stabbing into his side with every inhale. 

_You’ll never be good enough for them anyway. Why try?_

Tears spill down his cheeks as he stares at the bright blue sky above him. 

_Why try?_

There’s a panicked yelling coming from somewhere behind him, the screech of weapons meeting, the trembling underneath him of running feet. His vision is starting to blur now, the edges of the blue sky turning grey as blood seeps into the soil. Someone is kneeling beside him, but he can’t see it. Someone is calling his name, but he can’t hear it. All he can feel is the dull pain where the crossbow bolt is still lodged in his side. 

Even that fades away as the mark on his shoulder burns like ice, cold seeping under his skin and into his bones. 

_They’re a fairy tale. Why try?_

*

Five days ago, he’d been unhappily employed in the court of Baron Brachuss. Unhappy, because his parents had made the arrangement after his graduation from Oxenfurt. Employed, in the sense that he had room and board and was expected to teach the Baron’s five daughters. 

He hated it. Playing the same overly embellished ballads for a room full of unappreciative courtiers everyday was not his idea of what a bard’s life should be. However, his parents had been quite clear when they’d sent him there - this was his last chance. As the second son, it was his duty to help forge good ties with other noble families. However, having run away from three arranged marriages, he’d gotten a bit of a reputation, sullying his family name. Setting him up as the court bard in the Barony was a prestigious appointment, but it came with the caveat that if he fucked it up, his parents - despite their doting nature towards their youngest child - would be forced to disown him. 

So, instead, he’d been bored to tears for the last eighteen months. The Baron was a patron of the arts, or so he claimed, but only wanted to hear the most popular of ballads and had no interest in anything new. Jaskier felt like his talent was stagnating.

Then the Witcher had arrived. He’d been contracted to take care of a forktail that had been decimating the cattle herds. Jaskier had made sure he’d been present in every conversation, every negotiation, hiding in the shadows and watching, wide-eyed with curiosity. The Witcher was a soft-spoken man, broad shouldered, dark haired, with a myriad of scars on his arms and face. Despite his gruff appearance, Jaskier decided he sounded kind, and the other man seemed surprised at the hefty reward the Baron offered for the death of the beast.

When the Witcher had left to take on the contract, Jaskier had followed him. He’d hidden in the overgrown underbrush on a hill above the battle, watching as the inhumanly fast movements of the man below him carved chunks out of the forktail, forcing it to remain on the ground and slowing it down. It was like watching some kind of deadly dance. The fluidity of the Witcher’s movements, dodging and weaving out of the way of the creature’s attacks was indescribably graceful. 

When the other man landed the killing blow, Jaskier nearly cheered. As it was, he slunk away, heading back to the castle, head full of ideas for an epic ballad about the courageous deed. Once the Witcher made it back, the Baron insisted on having him stay as his guest for the night, joining him and his family for a meal in his honour. 

Jaskier was thrilled. He played with the other musicians, lively jigs and dances, keeping up with the high spirits of the room. Towards the end of the evening, he was allowed to relax, taking a seat at one of the low tables and being handed a plate piled high with roast meat and potatoes. His cheeks were rosy with wine and he was almost chagrined to think that this was one of the most exciting days of his life. 

When his eyes met that of the Witcher, he nearly dropped his cup. Ice cold fire throbbed under his skin where his soulmark lay, branded on the top of his shoulder blade. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock, but the Witcher merely narrowed his eyes and looked away. 

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Jaskier tried to follow after the man as he left the great hall, but he disappeared almost immediately. And when he went to the guest quarters, the Witcher was nowhere to be found. Had he just left? 

Had he felt the same thing? What did that mean? 

Jaskier lay awake that night, fingers rubbing absently over the raised brand, chewing on his lip and wondering what he was supposed to do next. Had he found his soulmate? Is that what the cold burning sensation meant? And why didn’t the Witcher feel it too? Or had he felt it and that’s why he left?

It was a long night as the bard stared up at the wooden planked ceiling of his small room and tried to decide what to do. In the early hours before dawn, he put on his plainest clothes, stuffed a few changes in a travel sack, slung his lute in its case over his shoulder, and snuck out of the castle to the stables. A few coins in the hand of the stablegirl told him which way the Witcher had gone, and he saddled the horse his parents had gifted him, turning the gelding’s head towards the north. 

He had no idea how to find the Witcher, but he was bound and determined to try. 

Inquiring at the closest village, about half a day’s ride from the castle, sent him down the road further to the east. By nightfall, he was ill tempered and saddlesore and questioning his own motives. 

Then a tall, imposing figure steps out onto the road ahead of him and he pulls so hard on his poor horse’s mouth that the gelding shakes his head roughly, trying to pull the reins from his hands. 

“Why are you following me?” the figure says and Jaskier laughs in relief.

“Oh it’s you! Thank the gods! I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come this way, and then the villagers weren’t very forthcoming with information, and I’m hardly a good horseman, so you can imagine what this saddle is doing to my - “

“Why,” the Witcher asks again, more forcefully this time. “Are. You. Following. Me?”

Jaskier stares at him - as much of him as he can see, at least, given how dark it is - for a moment before blurting out, “You’re my soulmate!”

The silence that follows his words is as deep as the ocean.

“You’re mistaken. Go home, little bird. Flutter on back to your nest.” The Witcher turns and disappears back into the forest that lines the road. 

“Wait!” Jaskier calls, scrambling down off the horse’s back as quickly as he can. He gets tangled in the stirrup and nearly lands face-first in the dirt, but manages to right himself and starts crashing through the woods after the man. “Please wait! I know you felt it! You can’t deny it. I saw your face! Oof!” Unable to really see where he’s going, he runs face first into the man’s chest.

“Witcher’s don’t have soulmates. What I feel is irrelevant.” This close, Jaskier can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest and he shivers.

“But you did feel something,” Jaskier says quietly, looking into the eyes he can see reflecting the light of the rising moon. His shoulder is throbbing in time with his heart and he doesn’t ever want to be apart from this man again. 

The Witcher sighs. “Get your horse. You can camp with me tonight. But in the morning, you’re going back to the castle.”

Jaskier just smiles. 

*

He does not, in fact, go back to the castle in the morning, because, as he says to the Witcher - Eskel, as he says his name is - Jaskier is his own man and can decide what to do for himself. And what he decides to do is follow a Witcher.

*

He never sees the archer who shoots him in the side. He knows Eskel is fighting the soldiers that ambushed them, and he tried to stay hidden, but one was sneaking up from behind and Jaskier cried out to warn him. He got a crossbow bolt for his troubles. 

The pain is overwhelming, but it is nothing compared to the burning - ice cold - that flares in his shoulder. He thinks he hears another voice calling Eskel, calling his name, but the pain is too much. 

_They’re a fairy tale, Julian. Why try?_

*

Consciousness comes in waves. It rises and falls, bringing with it vague feelings of warmth and pain and the quiet murmur of voices. He can’t move, can’t open his eyes, but somehow he knows he’s safe. 

The cold mark on his shoulder throbs in time with his heart. 

Eventually the wave crests and doesn’t recede, letting him feel all the parts of his body. There’s an ache in his side, but when he inhales, the sharp pain he expects isn’t there. He breathes easier, nearly sighing in relief. The room smells of dried herbs and earth and when he finally gathers enough strength to open his eyes, he finds himself on a narrow cot in a room whose every surface is covered in plants and jars and books. Light filters through the curtains of a window on the far side, a gentle breeze moving the material to and fro. 

He has no idea where he is, but he feels safe. 

Gingerly, he touches his side, prodding at the bandages that are wrapped around his torso. The dull ache remains, but nothing else. He sits up slowly, wedging himself between the pillows at the head of the bed, and drinks from the water left on the table beside him. He rubs absently at his shoulder as he tries to remember how he got here and what he should be doing.

The door on the far wall opens, revealing an older woman, her greying hair done up in a braid that hangs down her back, storm-grey eyes looking him over as she enters. 

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” she asks, and her voice is low and warm. She refills the cup he’s holding from a water jug and waits patiently whilst he drinks it down. 

“Curiously, much better than someone who’s been shot in the side by a crossbow should feel,” he quips, earning him a radiant smile.

“Well, I am very good,” she winks, taking the cup and setting it back on the table. “Your friends were very lucky that I live where I do. Otherwise, I’m not sure you’d be alive to tell the tale.”

Jaskier feels his face blanch at her words. He really had been at death’s door, hadn’t he? What an exhilarating and terrifying thought.

“Friends?” he asks to distract himself. “I was travelling with a Witcher, Eskel. Is he all right?”

He’s gratified when she nods. “Yes. A few minor cuts and bruises. Nothing serious. Witchers are hardy creatures, though. Not like you.” She smiles again. “They’re both very eager to see you.”

He frowns. “Uh, have they multiplied in the time I was unconscious? How long was I out?”

The healer laughs and it sounds like bright, ringing bells and the burbling of a creek. “Just a couple of days. I’ll tell them you’re awake.” 

She closes the door behind her, leaving Jaskier staring after her in confusion. 

A moment later, it opens again to reveal Eskel, and another man with cat-slit pupils, dark hair slicked back from his forehead to accentuate a widow’s peak. They both approach his bedside cautiously, like he’s a wild animal and may bolt if startled. 

The new Witcher is the first to speak. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused us, bard?” 

Jaskier is taken aback, but Eskel smacks the other man on the back of the head, hard enough to make him stagger. 

“For fuck’s sake, Lambert. Stop being an asshole for five minutes.” He turns to Jaskier, worry denting his brow. “Yarina said you were doing better. How do you feel?”

“Like I wasn’t shot, honestly.” He glances between the two Witchers. “What happened?”

Eskel blows out a breath, running his hand over his face and stepping back from the bed. Lambert crosses his arms and watches the other, mouth quirked in a sardonic grin, despite being reprimanded. 

“We were ambushed by soldiers looking for another Witcher. Lambert had already been captured by them - “ 

“Not captured!” Lambert broke in, indignantly. “I let them take me. Knew they were gonna come after another one of us and couldn’t take them all out on my own.” His grin turned smug. “So once they laid the trap for another Witcher, I broke out.”

“Right, of course, what a brilliant plan,” Eskel sarcastically shoots back. “And if they’d decided to kill you instead of capture? What then?”

Lambert shrugs. “Then I would have fought my way out. Easy.”

Eskel face-palms so hard Jaskier thinks it might leave a bruise if he were an ordinary man. As it is, he tries not to giggle at the banter between the two. They are obviously very well acquainted, and he’s absolutely smitten.

“Anyway,” Eskel continues, glaring at Lambert. “We managed to kill most of them, but not before you got shot. Lambert knew that Yarina lived not far from where we were ambushed, and we rode here as fast as we could so she could heal you.” He sighs. “This is exactly why you can’t travel with us, Jaskier. You - you were going to die. If not for Yarina…” 

That was a sobering thought, but not one he wanted to entertain. Jaskier squares his shoulders and schools his face into one of determination and anger. It wasn’t unlike the one he used on the children he was teaching to get them to cooperate. 

“I’m not going back. I’ve made my decision, and you’re just going to have to accept it. I know you’re my soulmate and whether you like it or not - “

“Wait. What the fuck?” Lambert interrupts again. “Let me see.” 

Jaskier blinks at him. “Um, what?”

Lambert huffs before reaching forward and trying to grab onto one of his arms. “Where is it? Your soulmark.”

Jaskier snatches his arm away and twists slightly to the side, pointing with his opposite hand to the top of his shoulder blade. “Here. If you’re so interested.”

Both Witchers are silent as they stare at the brand that Jaskier can still feel pulsing gently in tune with his heart. 

“Well fuck,” Lambert says quietly. “That… that’s it then.”

“No it’s fucking not.” Eskel snarls and Jaskier turns back to look at him, eyes wide.

“Ya it fucking is,” Lambert snaps back. 

“Just because some hapless kid is stuck with that mark doesn’t mean we get to claim him and drag him along with us.”

“Pretty sure we’re not the ones making that decision.”

“Pretty sure neither are you.”

“What is happening right now?” Jaskier asks, suddenly bewildered. 

Lambert looks over at him, eyeing him speculatively. “Have you ever looked at your soulmark?”

Jaskier frowns. “Not… really? It’s kind of hard to see.”

“Well, it looks like this.” Lambert lifts the edge of his tunic and there, scored across by a thin white scar, is a paw print. It takes up a palm-sized area on the Witcher’s stomach, and he can see the indentations of claws at the end of each pad.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “That’s kind of pretty.” Suddenly, he shakes his head. “Wait a minute. I thought Eskel - “

The other Witcher sighs and lifts his tunic as well, showing the same marking, but on the opposite side of his stomach. This one has part of the pad almost completely obscured by a poorly healed, knotted scar.

Jaskier gazes at it in wonder, eyes comically wide. “I’ve never heard of someone with more than one soulmate before,” he whispers. He looks up as Lambert scoffs, brow furrowed.

“Well then you’re extra lucky. You’ve got three.”

*

Yarina declares him fit to leave her cottage the next day. She bustles about, flirting shamelessly with Lambert the whole time she packs up provisions, accepting bundles of herbs and jars of things Jaskier can’t name in return. They bid her goodbye in the late morning, heading north along the road through the forest. 

Jaskier still feels a little tender around the middle, but he’s distracted by the easy banter between the two Witchers. Eskel half-heartedly tried to persuade him to go back to the Baron’s castle, but gave up after Jaskier sweetly told him to fuck off, and that if he didn’t want him to tag along, he’d go with Lambert instead. Eskel had thrown up his hands in defeat as Lambert laughed.

Now they set an easy pace, mindful of their less than experienced charge. The two Witchers had come to the consensus that they would take Jaskier with them to Kaer Morhen. Autumn was slowly merging into winter and it was almost past time for them to head to the stronghold. Besides, it was the safest place for him, and he could get to know his soulmates and decide what he wanted to do from there. 

Soulmates. Never in his life had he thought finding his soulmate was possible, let alone having three. He listens intently as Lambert and Eskel catch each other up on their travels over the past three seasons, and he begins to form a mental picture of the two. 

Lambert is slightly reckless, but has a good heart. He’s hot-headed, but dedicated. He tends to swear. A lot. He’s angry at the world, but he loves Eskel. 

Jaskier already knew Eskel was kind. But he learns that he’s also just, and generous to a fault. The Witcher has a sharp sense of humour as well. 

They talk about their other brother - Geralt - as if he’s the best of them. Jaskier can’t believe that, not yet at least, and certainly not after meeting Eskel first. But their stories paint him as strong and self-sacrificing. 

They make their way as quick as they can across the Continent to their winter home. Eskel teaches him how to gather firewood and light campfires. Lambert teaches him how to properly prepare rabbit and grouse for cooking. He’s squeamish at first, but gets the hang of it after a few days. Sleeping under the stars is uncomfortable, but he adapts to that as well. 

And if he has complaints, he keeps them to himself. He knows Eskel is still hesitant to let him come along, despite his adamant words that he would follow them no matter what. He’s sure that the Witcher could leave him behind if he really wants to, so if he shivers in the rapidly cooling air of the night, or jumps at every little sound coming from the surrounding forest, he swallows down his discomfort. 

When he wakes up wrapped in several layers of blankets not his own, he hides his smile.

Once in a while they stop in a village and Jaskier can ply his own trade, playing for a crowded tavern and earning enough coin for a room and food for the three of them. He’s slightly smug the first time it happens, delighting in the shocked look on Lambert’s face when he drops a key on the table in front of them. 

“Guess you are actually a bard, then. The lute’s not just for show,” he comments when they settle into their room for the night. 

Jaskier makes an offended noise before turning to face the Witcher, indignation clear on his face. “I’ll have you know I graduated with honours from Oxenfurt, my dear man. I know how to play any stringed instrument and several without.”

“Oh I bet you do, pretty thing,” Lambert leers at him, making Jaskier blush and Eskel cuff him in the back of the head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Behave yourself,” Eskel scowls. “Soulmark or no, if you piss him off, I’ll gut you myself.”

Jaskier can’t help the way his jaw drops at Eskel’s words. What the fuck does that mean? Lambert, for his part, just grumbles and goes about getting ready for sleep. The two Witchers share one bed whilst Jaskier takes the other. Despite the thoughts whirling around in his head, it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep, exhaustion dragging him down. 

They travel in much the same way for several weeks. The Witchers take contracts where they can, and Jaskier plays in the inns they stop in for the night. He sees the hesitance, sometimes, in the way tavern owners and inn keepers are reluctant to serve the two men and so Jaskier takes it upon himself to do most of the procurement of room and board when they’re in towns. 

Eskel appears relieved, even grateful, not to have to bargain with people who’d rather not talk to him. Lambert growls, but lets it be. He tells Jaskier later, when they’re sharing a rather good wineskin of Temerian brandy, that he rather enjoys intimidating people sometimes. However, he’s less inclined to do it if it means they won’t get kicked out afterwards. 

“Bard’s earning his keep, I’d say,” he says to Eskel, tone light, but direct.

Eskel only hums in response, sharpening his swords by the light of the campfire. Jaskier sighs and wonders what it’s going to take to break through that stoic exterior and make Eskel accept that he’s not going anywhere. 

Eventually, they make it to the path leading up to the Witcher’s keep. It’s more of a goat trail, if Jaskier’s being honest. The biting cold of winter is nipping at their heels. Their horses are laden with provisions, so they lead them single file up the winding path, Eskel in front, Lambert taking up the rear, Jaskier safely tucked between them. It’s a gruelling trek and after the first day, Jaskier can barely feel his limbs as he spreads out his bedroll and all but collapses next to the fire. 

He must doze for a while, because it’s fully dark when he opens his eyes again. He can hear the snapping and popping of the fire, and watches hazily as sparks dance upwards into the night sky. They’ve made camp in a well-used site just off the trail, hidden from view and sheltered beneath the trees. Off to the side, Lambert and Eskel are talking in hushed voices. 

“This isn’t a good idea,” Eskel starts, heaving a sigh. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. There hasn’t been a human soulmarked to a pack since - “

“Ya, ya I know,” Lambert cuts him off, impatient. “But it’s not your fucking choice, Eskel. You can’t take the choice away from them. Remember what happened with Deirdre.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me about choice, Lambert! And don’t throw my mistakes back at me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Lambert scoffs. “Not wrong. Like you said, it was a mistake. But you didn’t give her a choice. She was marked and you drove her away, thought it was in her best interests not to be seen with us. And look what that did.”

The two are silent for a moment before Eskel speaks, softly, with an edge of deep regret. “I hate this, you know. No one should have to bear our mark.”

“Holy fuck, stop being so godsdamned maudlin. We’re allowed to have nice things, you know. And even if he doesn’t love any of us, even if he only wants to be friends, we can still give him that choice.”

Eskel sighs, a heavy sound, world-weary. “Let’s just get him up the mountain. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

“There’s the spirit!” Lambert says, faking joviality in his tone. “Now, go the fuck to sleep, I’ll take first watch.”

*

Jaskier ponders the nighttime conversation the rest of the way up the mountain. Winter is beginning to pinch harder the further up the trail they travel, and by the third day, he’s so cold and so tired that he falls silent for the first time since they left Yarina’s cottage. Lambert immediately notices and makes them stop, digging out an oversized pair of mittens and another blanket to wrap around the bard. Jaskier smiles softly at him in thanks before taking his horse’s reins and continuing trudging up the trail. 

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the gates of Kaer Morhen hove into view and Jaskier feels his breath stolen away for a different reason. The keep is massive, and crumbling, and more majestic than he thought possible. It looks like a proper castle, with octagonal towers and thick walls. At its back is the Blue Mountains, and he can see where the keep is built into the rock itself. As they pass through the raised portcullis, Jaskier looks around at the open stableyard, surprised at the goats and chickens running loose across the hard packed dirt. 

Another Witcher stands to one side of the massive gate, biceps bulging as he holds the mechanism in place that is lifting the portcullis. Hair and skin as white as bone, he is stone-faced as he waits for them to pass all the way through before gently lowering it back down. He turns and Jaskier feels the brand on his shoulder throb as they lock eyes.

This must be Geralt, he thinks as the man stalks towards him. No emotion betrays itself on that face. There’s a scar bisecting his eye on the left side, and a myriad of others just visible under the edge of his shirt collar. Jaskier doesn’t flinch as the man crowds into his space, still trying to stare him down. 

Much to his surprise and - if he’s being honest with himself - amusement, Geralt leans forward and practically buries his nose into the edge of his cloak at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He breathes in a great lungful of air and Jaskier is suddenly aware that the man is scenting him. 

He wonders idly what he smells like. Probably dried sweat, horse from the blanket wrapped around him, and the last traces of lemon balm from his soaps. 

“Geralt,” Eskel says quietly and the Witcher steps back, seeming to come back to himself. Realizing what he’s done, Jaskier watches as his ears turn a particularly alarming shade of pink. 

“He’s soulmarked,” Geralt states and Jaskier could get lost in that voice. Nearly as deep and vast as Eskel’s, there’s a roughened quality to it that makes Jaskier shiver. 

Lambert snorts. “Can’t put anything past you, oh great White Wolf,” he smirks. “Now get out of the fucking way so we can get the horses put away and out of the cold.” 

That snaps all three Witchers into a flurry of motion, unloading the horses and stowing away their gear. Jaskier is loaded up with their packs and his lute and ushered through the front doors of the hall. He’s told to follow it down to the small hall as there’s a fire there where he can thaw out and they can get their things sorted. 

Inside the keep is just as impressive as outside. The hall is lined in gently swaying tapestries that he makes a note to revisit in the light of day. It leads down to a grand sweeping stone staircase as well as several large wooden doors, one of which is slightly ajar. He nudges it open with his foot to find a room with a large table and bench seating, as well as several huge armchairs and a merrily burning fire. Sighing in relief, he neatly dumps their packs off to one side, carefully settling his lute against the wall, before dropping down as close to the fire as he can get. Kneeling on the heavy fur rugs, he’s surprised to note he can’t feel the cold from the stones underneath leeching up to greet him. He hunkers down, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on top. 

He must fall asleep because he’s woken by movement as he feels someone carrying him out of the hall. When he makes a noise of protest, he’s shushed, and he relaxes. Eventually he’s laid onto a soft mattress and his boots are tugged off. He cooperates enough to shrug out of his coats and strip down to his braies and shirt before climbing back into the bed and falling asleep. 

*

It’s his empty stomach, rumbling obscenely, that wakes him up sometimes in the night. He blinks his eyes, trying to remember where he is. The room is lit by the warm glow of the lowly burning fire, as well as several candles on the mantle above it. When he tries to get up, however, he finds himself pinned down by a large arm. 

Fully awake now, he notices that it’s actually two arms, crisscrossed over top of him, effectively trapping him between two Witchers: Eskel on one side, Lambert on the other, and he can see the white hair of Geralt at Eskel’s back. 

This is an interesting turn of events. 

As he begins to try to delicately extricate himself, Lambert stirs, grunting in protest, and wraps his arms more securely around Jaskier, yanking him closer to his chest. Jaskier huffs out a laugh. Who knew the surly Witcher was so tactile?

“He sleeps like the dead, you know,” Eskel murmurs quietly, and Jaskier’s eyes snap up to catch on his amused ones. “He may never let you go.” 

Jaskier groans theatrically, but keeps his voice soft. “As much as I appreciate the incredible warmth and safety this little nest is providing, I feel I could eat an entire ox.” His stomach chooses that moment to grumble in agreement and he stifles a giggle. Eskel’s grin widens. 

“Hmm, I see. Geralt?” He turns to elbow the man behind him, who grunts in protest. “You were here first, you great lummox. Get the bard something to eat. Lambert’s never letting him go.” 

Geralt grunts again in response, rolling off the bed and disappearing out of the room. He returns shortly with a plate covered in cold roast meats and a chunk of bread with soft butter. Eskel sits up to grab the plate and offers it to Jaskier.

The bard, still held closely to Lambert’s chest, slowly picks pieces off the plate, feeling the knotting hunger in his stomach dissipate as the food disappears. Once he’s done the last bit of bread, Eskel hands the plate back to Geralt and slides back down in the bed, reaching up to card his fingers through Lambert’s hair. 

Jaskier is silent for several long minutes before he speaks. “Tell me about my soulmark,” he asks, voice subdued. He’s gathered bits and pieces on their journey here, but he needs to know what these men expect of him. 

His stubbornness may have brought him here, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely naive. 

Before Eskel can speak, Geralt leans up overtop of him to address Jaskier. “We each have the same soulmark. Always have, since the Trials that made us Witchers. It keeps us together, bonds us, so we have a greater chance of survival. When Witchers were more - hmmm - plentiful, it was common for humans to be born with the same soulmark.”

Eskel nods and takes up the thread. “It ties them to us, a link to humans so that we don’t seem so monstrous.”

Jaskier snorts. “That doesn’t seem to have worked.”

Both Eskel and Geralt’s expressions darken. 

“No,” Eskel says. “It didn’t. So we stopped looking. Figured it was safer not to have someone soulbonded to us and risk their lives.”

“Or risk their rejection,” Geralt adds softly. 

“Yeah. That too.” Eskel looks pained and suddenly all Jaskier wants to do is reach out and take away that pain. Almost of its own accord, his hand moves across the empty space between them and cups Eskel’s cheek. 

It’s like something inside him slots into place and his whole body feels like it's full of sunshine. He gasps, fingers tightening where they touch Eskel’s skin and he can see the same feeling reflected in the other’s face. Without thinking about it, he closes the distance between them, desperate to touch the other man more, pressing their lips together in a frantic kiss that is awkward and sloppy but feels so _right_ that he can’t care. 

Behind him, Lambert makes another noise of protest, tightening his arms again to try to drag Jaskier back, but Eskel just moves with him, pressing him into Lambert’s chest and wrapping his arms around both of them. He trails biting kisses down Jaskier’s throat while the other pants his name, running his hands over the hard muscle thinly covered by his shirt. 

“Eskel!” Jaskier whines. He grips onto Eskel’s shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Eskel, look at me. Please.”

The Witcher stops, lifting wild eyes to meet the bard’s. Behind him, Jaskier can see Geralt has slotted himself up against Eskel’s back, nose buried at the nape of his neck. He can feel Lambert doing the same to him. 

The warm, bright, sunshine feeling that is suffusing his limbs hasn’t dissipated, but he needs to know the answer to a question that has suddenly flung itself to the forefront of his mind.

“Eskel. Is this why you didn’t touch me, before?” he asks quietly. “Did you know this would happen?”

He watches as Eskel swallows, his throat clicking loudly, before he nods. “Yes,” he rasps. “I knew. Not which one of us it would be, but that one of us would trigger the bond.” He closes his eyes, seeming to try to collect his thoughts. “Gods, Jaskier, you’re just a bard. This is no life for you.” His voice is broken, like he’s on the edge of tears.

“This is no fucking life for anyone,” Lambert snarls, hooking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder and staring at his packmate. “But he gets to decide that, not you.” 

Geralt rumbles his agreement, mirroring him over Eskel’s shoulder. 

Eskel laughs, a high, slightly hysterical sound, but he leans in to kiss Jaskier again, slow and gentle this time. He’s smiling when they part. “Okay. Okay, it’s your decision, little bird.”

Which is not really a decision at all, in Jaskier’s mind. He smirks at Eskel before grabbing both sides of his face and placing a kiss on his forehead. “I want to stay.”

*

They sleep for the rest of the night, and part of the next day, still too exhausted from the climb up the mountain to do much else. When they finally make it back down to the small hall, Jaskier is introduced to their mentor and weapons master, Vesemir. The older Witcher is, if anything, more stoic than Geralt. 

He quirks an eyebrow at Eskel and Lambert when Jaskier walks in behind them. “Did you bring us entertainment for the winter? That seems unfair to the bard.” It’s only when Geralt huffs a laugh that Jaskier realizes he’s joking. 

Vesemir tilts his lips in a smile at Jaskier, nodding at him as he’s introduced. “Welcome, Jaskier. Though, I think your proper title is Julian Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” He smirks as the three other Witchers look at him in consternation. Jaskier just grins and bows grandly. 

“You are correct, kind sir. Though I would be curious as to how you knew.”

Vesemir nods towards his lute case where it’s still propped against the wall where he left it last night. “Your initials and family crest are on the case.” He shrugged. “I’ve made it a hobby to know all the nobility’s crests and banners. There’s some real artistry when the combinations are made.” 

Jaskier’s grin widens. He’s going to get on with Vesemir just fine. 

It takes a few days for Jaskier to settle into the routines of the keep. After being introduced to the hot spring, he’s given chores suitable to his skill level. Mainly meal preparations and sorting through the thousands of books in the library. Eskel gives him a tour of all the main parts of the keep, Lambert shows him the distillery and secret passages, and Geralt lets him help in the stables. 

So it’s not until a week later that Jaskier gets an opportunity to explore whatever this awakened bond is. He’s practically vibrating with the need to touch Eskel, and he knows that’s part of it. He hopes that the Witcher feels the same way, and when they’re alone in the early evening after dinner one night, the hungry look in the other man’s eyes tells him he’s right. 

For the first time in his life, Jaskier feels nervous at the prospect of undressing in front of another. They’ve seen each other naked in the hot springs already, but this feels different. More real. More intimate. Eskel seems to sense his hesitancy and crowds him against the wall beside the bed, letting his hands trail along his flanks, coming to rest on the tops of his hips as he kisses him slowly. The warm sunlight feeling fills him again, seeming to concentrate wherever Eskel touches him. It’s almost like he’s drowning in the sensation. When Eskel releases his mouth, he feels dizzy, like he’s had a little too much good wine.

“You all right, little bird?” Eskel asks him gently, carding a hand through his hair. He nods, not trusting his voice, and nuzzles his face into Eskel’s neck, tasting the skin there. 

He swears it even tastes like sunlight.

“What do you want?” Eskel breathes into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He’s so hard he aches and when the Witcher presses his thigh between his legs, he moans at the friction. He can feel Eskel's lips turn up in a grin as he kisses his way along Jaskier’s throat. “Come on, tell me what you want.” 

“Please,” he manages to gasp out. “I want you to fuck me.” He’s surprised at his own boldness, but Eskel just chuckles darkly and steps back. 

“All right. But you’re wearing too many clothes. Strip, and get on the bed.” 

Jaskier hastens to obey, and despite his nerves, he makes quick work of his clothes, dropping them in a pile at the side of the bed before he climbs on. When he goes to lay on his back, Eskel catches his hips, gently but firmly pulling them back and spreading his knees. He shivers again, feeling vulnerable, as he balances his weight on his forearms.

Eskel drapes himself over his back, and he can feel that the other man is still wearing his thin shift. The fabric drags over his sensitive skin as Eskel mouths kisses over his shoulders and down his spine. When he tongues along the edges of his soulmark, a flare of ice cold sensation ripples across the surface, making him gasp. Slowly, Eskel drags his fingertips along his flanks and up over the swell of his ass. 

Everywhere he touches Jaskier produces lines of pleasant tingling that go straight to his cock. Nothing has ever felt like this and he’s beginning to feel overwhelmed by the sensations. 

As if he understands, Eskel draws back until just the tips of his fingers are tracing soothing circles across his cheeks before one hand dips down, tracing his hole and he drops his head down between his arms, groaning at the feeling. 

“You’re so beautiful, little bird,” Eskel croons. “You’re so good for me.” His fingers tease against his opening before moving away and coming back again coated in something cool and slippery. “Relax for me, that’s it.” He works at Jaskier’s hole, carefully tracing the muscle there until it starts to relax a bit before slowly pushing the tip of his finger inside. 

Jaskier feels incandescent. Like the sun is hiding under his skin. Eskel works him open with such care, thick fingers delving in to rub against his inner walls, crooking almost without thought to find a spot that has his legs shaking in an effort to stay still. His other hand pets along his hip, reaching down to tease at the head of his cock, swiping at the pre-come that is gathering there as he fingers him. He has no idea how long he sits on the knife-edge of pleasure before Eskel slides a second finger inside, wrapping his other hand firmly around his cock, and leans up to whisper in his ear. 

“Come for me, little bird.” 

He can do nothing but obey, spilling onto Eskel’s hand and the sheets below. 

“Good boy,” Eskel whispers softly, though his fingers never stop their movements. He scissors them slowly, adding a third as Jaskier pants through the aftershocks. His arms have given out and his face is pushed into the pillows at the top of the bed, turned to the side slightly so he can breathe. 

“Fuck,” he manages. “Eskel… that’s - “

“Sshh, I know. Just needed to take the edge off. How do you feel?”

Jaskier gives the question serious consideration before answering. “Like I’ve swallowed the sun. So bright,” he says, muzzily, and he feels Eskel’s smile against his shoulder, right over the brand. 

“Good.” Eskel continues fucking him slowly on his fingers, adding more of the slippery substance and a third finger as Jaskier pants and moans underneath him. He loses all sense of time as the pleasure builds again, pooling at the base of his spine. Finally Eskel deems him ready, withdrawing his fingers and lining himself up. 

The first push is almost painful in its intensity until the head of Eskel’s cock pops through the tight ring of muscle and both men groan. 

“Fuck you’re so tight. Feel so good, Jaskier,” Eskel pants. Sweat drips down Eskel’s back as he holds himself steady, forcing himself to go slow. Inch by inch he sinks in, letting Jaskier adjust to the size of him. When he’s finally fully seated, he holds still, wrapping an arm around the bard’s waist and pressing open-mouthed kisses to his spine. 

After a few moments, he grinds his hips forward, eliciting a sobbing moan out of the man beneath him. He frowns. “You all right, little bird?”

Jaskier nods as best he can, pushing himself back up onto his arms and gasping as the movement makes Eskel’s cock shift inside of him. “Please,” he whispers. 

“Please what?” Eskel grins.

“ _Fuck me._ ”

“With pleasure.” He withdraws about halfway before pumping his hips forward, driving into the willing body under him. He keeps a steady pace, angling his hips slightly until a hitching moan tells him he’s hit that bundle of nerves again deep inside. He uses the weight of his own body to thrust into Jaskier, riding his own pleasure whilst listening to the chorus of half-vocalized moans. 

He grins to himself as he uses the arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist to haul him upright, forcing the man into his lap and driving his cock further inside. Jaskier’s mouth hangs open, and his head tips back to rest on Eskel’s shoulder as punched out moans fall from his lips. 

“That’s it, take what I give you, little bird.” One hand wraps around Jaskier’s cock, stroking it harshly whilst his other hand holds him steady for the short, sharp thrusts he makes, chasing his own release. Jaskier comes first, mouth open in a silent scream, ass clenching down on Eskel so hard it only takes a couple more hard thrusts before he’s spilling inside the bard. 

After a moment spent catching their breath, Eskel mouthing kisses along the column of Jaskier’s exposed throat, they collapse in slow motion. Gently, Eskel lays them both down on their sides in the bed, though he keeps his cock buried in Jaskier as long as he can. It feels good - it feels right - and some feral part of his mind never wants it to end. 

He strokes his hand down Jaskier’s side as his breathing returns to normal, listening as his heartbeat slows as well. He kisses absently over the soulmark and gasps when Jaskier clenches around him unexpectedly. 

The bard giggles when he nips his shoulder in retaliation. 

“Did you feel that?” he asks, apprehension lacing his voice. “I - it was as if. As if the sunlight was under my skin.”

Eskel hums in agreement. “It’s the soulbond,” he says quietly. “It’ll feel different, with the others.”

“What if I don’t want the others? I mean - “ Jaskier makes a noise of discomfort in the back of his throat. “That’s not what I meant. But, what if I only want you. Like this. Will they… will they… object?”

Eskel shakes his head, then realizes Jaskier can’t see him and replies, “No. We’re a pack. But it’s your choice. And theirs, too. The bond was triggered by me, but now you’ll have to spend time with each of us, see how it manifests.” 

Jaskier hums, suddenly lost in thought, and is silent so long that Eskel thinks he’s fallen asleep before he speaks again. “I’m glad you brought me here,” he says quietly. “I’m glad you listened to Lambert.”

Eskel snorts. “Well, there’s a first for everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading! Comments and kudos mean more fics, did you know?? <3


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